Far Away So Close
by bleak reality
Summary: (As much as I pretend, I don't belong here. (flipside) Don't worry, I can fix this.) Neo and Trinity learn coexistence, and in doing so, learn to fall. M1.


Note:

This is a work in progress, set during the first Matrix. No apologies for abstractness or spaces in the consciousness of these two; it's how they think, it's how we write.

Yes, we. Co-written with the incomparable, and names don't matter here.

Shall we continue?

.

.

.

.

It's possible (I realise) to know someone before you meet them. Blue eyes and black hair, pale skin and muscle, a figure silent and commanding. I think I always knew your head would tilt that way; I knew that quirk of your mouth before I ever saw it.

I saw it in dreams.

Never mind that I imagined your shoulders broader, or your stance taller, or your bearing far more masculine, this entity is the one I've been yearning for years before I ever caught your scent through the haze of smoke, light and noise.

And learning to live with (three doors down from) you is proving . . . difficult.

I seem to spend a lot of time in my room. If it weren't so metallic I could try to pretend it was home. The bed's as narrow as I'm used to (but there aren't as many sheets to tangle in), there's a shelf for spare clothes, a basket above me to place little irrelevancies, and a sink in the corner only a little smaller than my kitchenette. There's even a phone, a battered plastic receiver that calls, as far as I know, to the Deck. If there were a fishbowl of matchboxes, a pile of books or the faint hum of traffic, I could close my eyes and feel somewhat at ease.

But the walls are metal, not wood. And my breath echoes all wrong in this place. As much as I pretend, I don't belong here.

Rough textures. Running fingertips over the edge of the bunk, tracing the underside of metal where it's been cut to a harsh edge. Feeling skin split, sharp lines a contrast to my tangled fingerprints.

The shallow slices don't bleed.

I don't want there to be blood. If I did want it, it would come. The metal edge is not at such an angle that I could not swipe my wrist along it.

But it's not like that. I just want a small reminder, a seam in healing skin, a mark I have created. Small temporary scars: something to show that I still have control in a world such as this.

This world is too much for me. Everything Morpheus has told me, every sideways look and casual glance from the crew, they all merge and slide and mix into this burble of noise I can't hear, a mess I can't put a name to, a pattern that won't organise. There's just this nameless worry, nagging at peripheral vision. Life, such as it is, consists of nothing more than moments, occasional names and faces coming clear through the blur.

The most common, and vivid, is yours.

While adrift in this storm of too silent too loud, too rough too still, I need an anchor to grasp. A cornerstone. A rock.

Faith. I'm in a war against doubt, and I've no faith.

I've nothing to believe in.

But you.

You.

I could fall head over heels in belief with you.

.

.

.

**_flipside_****__**

.

.

.

Try not to stumble all over the place, Coppertop.

You're nervous. I can tell. Your boots are half a size too big and the Neb isn't exactly the neatest of ships, what with cables scattered across the deck, but whatever. You never had much grace to begin with; uncertainty can trip the most experienced of soldiers. And will. Here's a hand, anyway. Take it, go on. I don't bite. 

_Have you been getting enough sleep? _

Liar. Unplugged two weeks ago, and your grip still isn't as stable as it should be. I can feel the tremors through the skin of your palm. Then again, it might just be the cold. Shivering isn't something you can hide, no matter how hard you clench your fists or try to stand still. Don't worry, I can fix this. 

_You're off-duty, for now. I'm taking over the midnight watch._

Don't make me pull rank on you. Your ego's feeble enough as it is, without me shattering it into even tinier shards. We have to work on building you up into something other than a vegetable stalk. Fill you out with Dozer's slop, then Tank can introduce you to the sims in the morning. You could do with a bit of muscle in that lean frame of yours. 

Lean. Far too descriptive for comfort. Focus, woman. 

_Don't argue with me. On your way down, drop by the utility closet next to the mess hall. You'll find a spare blanket on one of the lower shelves._

Mine.

_You can use it for now. _

Blushing, is it? I won't deny I'm amused. It suits you to have a color other than pasty white stain your cheeks. That aside, insubordination is something I will not tolerate. Not from anyone. Not from you.

You.

The rookie. Weak, in a way that isn't pathetic. Mouse was pathetic. He used to whine a lot. You don't, though. You don't complain, either. You're quiet and observant and only too willing to stay out of everyone's way. Not that I expected anything else from a hacker who spent most of his time holed out in his apartment, living on takeout, breakfast cereal, and second hand smoke from his client's cigarettes.

Cancer sticks are bad for your health. You steered clear of them. I wonder why.

I wonder about a lot of things, concerning you. Like why you choose to sit right at the edge of the bench during mealtimes, and insist on cleaning out your bowl even when someone else is on dishwashing duty. Why you frown when you can't get the boiler to work, or stare intensely at the cascading code on the bank of monitors.

Why you shuffle constantly, hands in your pockets, gaze to the floor. 

Why you politely pretend to consider Mouse's offers, or avoid encounters with Switch each chance you get (then again, she did point a gun to your head). Why you shy away from Cypher's smirks, shrink before Dozer and his needles, and avoid Apoc entirely. Why you only ever ease up when addressed by Tank, or when Morpheus is in the room. 

Helpless. Discontent. Distant. And something else I can't identify. 

You seem to dodge the looks of everyone but me. And even then, you struggle for a second, before looking away. That's when confusion is the most visible emotion, blatant in your wide eyes. 

You are Neo, the rookie. Bald and cold and scared. Re-introduced to a second reality, when you could barely function in the first. 

You turn to leave. That's when I feel a tug, in the pit of my stomach. Caused, perhaps, by yesterday's close brush with an agent. Or the most recent sentinel attack. Your nerves are rubbing off on me, greenhorn. Nothing more. I open my mouth to say something.

_Before you go--_, and it may kill Cypher to know that calling you back feels right, somehow. It seems as if the only direction towards which you can walk without a faltering step is mine. 

_-- here's a hat, for your head. Keep warm._

Your smile is small, faint and full of gratitude. You smile, because of me. 

_And, Neo?_

Dare I say it? Cynicism be damned, for once.

_. . . rest easy._


End file.
